Page 2 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

“We’re only here to observe the race today, my girl,” Papa said by way of warning for at least the third time. They were to return home at the end of August, and securing accommodations for any more horseflesh aboard a ship bound for Virginia might prove difficult.

“I know, Papa,” Sophronie responded, her attention still fixed on the teeming grounds.

A stunning raven-haired woman atop a sidesaddle, and wearing an elegant empire-style raspberry-red riding habit adorned with black and silver accents, expertly guided her dun-colored mare toward the racetrack. The black scarf secured around the lady’s jaunty top hat flowed behind her in the breeze like a banner as she rode.

A delicate black lace veil concealed her features, but there could be no doubting she was quality. Likely an aristocrat, given the alert and identically navy-blue and saffron-yellow-liveried footmen riding in her wake like soldiers guarding their queen.

Sophronie glanced down at her bottle-green and peony-pink striped traveling costume. A slight frown tugged her eyebrows together. The bright pink silk of her spencer was more appropriate for a walk in Hyde Park than a racecourse. Perhaps she ought to have worn a gown in a more subdued hue.

Giving a mental shrug, she turned her attention outdoors once more. It was too late to worry about her ensemble now. At least her fawn-colored half boots would serve her well. If she’d had her way, she’d have worn her boys’ attire—including sensible boots that came to her knees. Skirts were so cumbersome. Men had no idea the freedom something as trivial as trousers provided them.

A race never failed to stir her blood, and today was no exception. Fortunately, the sport was widely admired by both males and females, and for a change, Sophronie’s presence wouldn’t be remarked upon. No male would level her an affronted glare, mutter grievances beneath his breath, or declare a woman’s attendance wasn’t de rigueur.

Sophronie doubted she was capable of being de rigueur, and if that truth offended le beau monde’s stodgy sensibilities, she didn’t give two farthings. She wasn’t English, and the approval of the upper ten thousand meant nothing to her. However, her father was of a different opinion.

She cast him a swift glance only to find him studying her again as he relaxed against the posh squabs. He’d done that often of late, particularly since they’d come to England. Fiddling with the silk cord of her pink crocheted and beaded reticule, she speculated for the umpteenth time whether he’d anticipated she’d find a husband on this trip. After all, she was nearly three and twenty.

Surely Papa understood she couldn’t marry an Englishman and live far away from her beloved father. She’d never entertained the notion finding a husband in England, not even for half a second. Her home was in Virginia and her husband, should there ever be one, would be an American.

She’d met plenty of pleasant, friendly people in England. Indeed, she’d made a few dear friends she would write to for the rest of her life. But the truth of it was, Sophronie was too different, too untamed, too unrefined to truly fit into English society. What was more, she didn’t want to. The strictures, rules, and expectations were suffocating at best and hypocritical at worst.

As George Slater’s only surviving child, Papa had cosseted her. They both knew he had. There’d been a boy and girl born to Sophronie’s parents before her birth. Elias and Molly had died from a fever, as had Mama a week later when Sophronie had been a toddler.

If it weren’t for the family portrait, painted shortly before her mother, sister, and brother had fallen ill, she’d not know what they looked like. Her memories of them had faded with time until barely any details remained. Regret filled her as they’d become hazy images she couldn’t see clearly. It grieved and frightened her that she could forget people she’d loved so very much.

It was unfair—no, cruel.

Time had robbed her of those precious memories. Some people claimed the passing of time was a blessing—time heals all wounds—but time also stole irreplaceable recollections. In truth, Sophronie believed she would rather feel the pain if it meant her memories remained intact.

Well aware of how often Papa indulged her whims, she tried not to take advantage of his affection. After the death of her siblings and Mama, Sophronie and Papa had grown ever closer.

As he had no sons, George Slater permitted her to learn the intricate business of raising and breeding horseflesh. An uncommon practice which offended the genteel sensibilities of their neighbors, his pompous cronies, and nearly everyone in New England in any way associated with horse breeding or racing, but which made her adore him all the more.

She’d excelled at both equine breeding and racing and had become an accomplished jockey to boot. That was a source of pride for Sophronie and her father but a pebble in the shoe of many other men. Particularly a rugged Scotsman’s large, scuffed boots. Men didn’t take kindly to a woman besting them at anything, and most especially not a sport generally reserved for males.

George Octavius Slater was a fair man—an honest man. A man of faith, integrity, and honor. He didn’t boast about his self-made wealth, nor did he look down upon those who were less fortunate.

In point of fact, he was somewhat of a champion for the underdog, and he expected his hoyden of a daughter to act with kindheartedness and graciousness at all times. Papa might excuse Sophronie’s lack of decorum, but ill humor or meanness was unacceptable.

Papa had long ago given up shaping her into a respectable young woman of high station, although Sophronie could pass for a polished lady when circumstances required it. He might disapprove of her riding astride in breeches, participating in horse races, bidding at Tattersall’s, and any number of other unladylike pursuits, but still he loved her and tolerated her wild nature.

Only so far as it came to her love of horses, however.

A wicked grin twitched the corners of Sophronie’s mouth, and she angled her head so that her bonnet’s brim hid her smirk from her father.

She’d outbid that brusque Scotsman, Evan Gordonstone, Duke of Waycross, at Tattersall’s, and he had yet to forgive her. Even after he’d secured that magnificent Friesian from the Gypsy travelers in June, despite Sophronie’s best efforts to buy the stallion.

In truth, she hadn’t intended to use the horse for breeding stock but rather her own mount. Nevertheless, common sense had eventually prevailed because not only was the stallion too large for her small frame, she couldn’t bear the notion of him being confined below a ship’s deck for weeks.

An animal as powerful and regal as the Friesian ought to be running free in verdant pastures, his glossy ebony mane and tail waving in the wind. Her smug smile faded, replaced by an almost peeved frown. Almost, except she wouldn’t give Waycross the satisfaction, even if the boor wasn’t present to see her peevishness.

The triumphant glint in his blue-gray eyes when she’d finally conceded the horse to him had almost been enough to change her mind about allowing the duke the stallion. She possessed the funds to outbid Waycross. The ornery man certainly didn’t deserve any leniency or sympathy from her after the impolite, disdainful manner in which he’d treated her these many weeks.

Regardless, Sophronie had recognized the immediate bond between Waycross and the stallion. A melding together of majestic animal and a man more feral beast than sophisticated duke. That type of unity was rare and heartwarming.

Truth be told, she hadn’t believed Waycross capable of the gentler emotions she’d witnessed playing across his angular face that June afternoon when he haggled with the Gypsy over the stallion’s price.

The duke had never been anything but icily civil to her—just barely at that. No, he’d been downright hostile at the Gypsy encampment when he’d bought the Friesian.